


Overthrown, Made New

by trinityofone



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Virginity, angel powers are great for sex purposes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-01
Updated: 2009-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:59:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trinityofone/pseuds/trinityofone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The whole “rehymenated” thing was a joke, but just because something is funny doesn’t mean it’s not true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Overthrown, Made New

It’s nothing like riding a bike. Everything does _not_ just come back to him: he remembers, but his body doesn’t know anything; every inch of his skin feels fresh and untouched. Because it _is_ , he realizes, and the whole “rehymenated” thing was a joke, but just because something is funny doesn’t mean it’s not true.

Jamie’s real nice about it. She seems kind of pleased, actually, to have that kind of power over him: here’s this ( _obviously_ ) smooth and experienced and of course incredibly attractive guy, but she can make him buck and whimper and come undone just by putting her hand on his dick. There’s no pretense here—they both know this is their one and only night together—so even though Jamie’s adjusted remarkably well to the whole shapeshifter thing, Dean doesn’t really think he can explain how, due to some angels ( _an_ angel), she is actually the first person to ever touch him there, and that even though he _remembers_ enough other times to make getting tested seem like a really good idea, it still _feels_ like, well. Virgin territory.

It’s kind of annoying that all his carefully won control—his skill, his _finesse_ —is gone. On the other hand, his refractory time is _amazing_.

So it’s kind of like the first time around, and also kind of not. The most major difference is, there are other things on his mind now besides sex. When he was a teenager and had first discovered the joys of orgasms, particularly with other people, it occupied a good 96 percent of his brainpower (the other 4 being taken up by Sammy—and never the twain shall meet). Now, though, the impending apocalypse is kind of distracting. He’d also argue that he’s older—and maybe even a bit wiser, a bit more mature. Last year—forty years ago—before he died, he’d seized every damn day, taken every remotely attractive girl up on any chance of getting laid. Now, though—he has his fantastic, fumbling night with Jamie; he has his intense _experience_ with Anna in the back of his car; and yeah, he must be getting old, because that about does him for the year.

Which makes his count either some awesomely/embarrassingly high number that he doesn’t actually know, or two.

He’s okay with it, if it’s two. On some level he sort of likes—sort of even wants to cling to—the notion that he’s all shiny and new, that everything that came before him waking up in his wooden box can be chucked away. These hands, these fingers—they’ve got less than a year’s worth of blood on them, and all of it belongs to demons and other nasties just as deserving.

He can start over, even if it means taking himself right back down the same path: watching his body once again fill up with scars, with cuts and bruises and bones that heal at odd angles. Hell, by the end of his first day, he had torn his fingers to shreds and put a deep gash in his arm. Maybe that’s what’s behind some of the odd looks Castiel gives him: like he’s thinking some angelic version of “You break it, you bought it.”

Or maybe not. Maybe not, because even after everything’s gone to so much shit—Lucifer risen, Sam shattered, Castiel a fugitive—even then, or _only_ then, Cas finds time to take Dean aside. They’re up in one of Bobby’s spare bedrooms: “Take off your clothes,” Cas says. And weirdly this—because it’s now, because it’s Cas, because of everything— _this_ order Dean obeys.

He strips down without emotion—he hasn’t been feeling much lately, to be honest, aside from numbness and fatigue. Naked, he looks up and meets Castiel’s eyes. “Before,” Castiel says, “I wasn’t permitted. But now…” _Now that it doesn’t matter_ , Dean thinks. “Now I would like to do this for you.”

Dean’s not sure what he’s expecting. What he’s _not_ expecting is for the angel to simply lay a hand on Dean’s shoulder, palm to ridged memory of palm, and _press_ , push into Dean in some way he can’t describe, but suddenly it’s like he’s filled with warmth and light and _Castiel_ , and when he opens his eyes (he does not even remember closing them) Castiel’s hands are at his sides, and Dean is a new man.

It’s like the last year is gone from him, has simply sloughed away like a piece of dead skin. The scar on his arm, the white lines on his hands, the gash on his forehead from just a few days ago: Dean doesn’t need to check to know that they’re gone, all gone—like they were never even there. He still _remembers_ —he needs to remember—but even if the mental burden hasn’t, and cannot actually be lessened, physically he feels…lighter.

Shiny. New.

He starts to laugh. Castiel looks at him: puzzled, unsure if he should be pleased. “You heavenly types,” Dean says, and he hasn’t felt this amused, this giddy in weeks, _months_ —“Do you have some weird obsession with virginity or what?”

Castiel continues to appear baffled by Dean’s response. “Not that I am aware of, no.”

“Never mind,” Dean says, clapping the angel on the shoulder—the first thing his hand has ever touched. “It’s not something that really affects you.”

In this, Dean turns out to be epically, hilariously wrong. If he wants, he can blame it on some sort of weird imprinting thing, because after that first touch, there is no one but Castiel whom he craves. They are in constant contact—Castiel has nowhere else to go—and Dean’s body rediscovers want with a fierceness that would impress himself at 13. The best—worst?—thing is that Castiel himself does not seem immune, and soon they go from both humming with the first stirrings of desire to playing a fucking symphony of it: Castiel the string section, Dean the heady beat of the percussion.

Or something like that. Dean’s doesn’t know; he’s ridiculously horny.

And yet somehow it’s Castiel who cracks first; Castiel who finds him standing in the swaying grass beyond Bobby’s house and pushes him down to the ground. The breeze rushes across the field, and Dean and his angel rut there with a need that feels as desperate and as primal, an energy that Dean feels across every inch of his never-touched skin.

He is untouched; and then Castiel touches him; and then he is untouched; and then Castiel touches him; and then he is untouched, pure, virginal; and then Castiel touches him and he is _on fire_ —he is ancient and newly born—he is a fumbling teenager and he is a fucking porn star, writhing on the ground and shouting Cas’ name like a curse, like a prayer, a summoning.

It’s ridiculous, waking up almost every morning wearing new skin; he feels like a snake, twisting and changing during the night. But he also feels constantly awash with wonder: every dawn like that first glimpse of light when he finally parted the dirt above his head; every breath like that first relieved gasp; every drink of water like that first glorious gulp.

And, you know: every cheeseburger, every fry, every slice of homemade cinnamon apple pie—they’re like nothing his taste buds have ever had before. If he guns his baby’s engine, he gets to for the first time feel her rev. Stick a cassette in the tape deck, and damn—he gets to hear _Zeppelin II_ for the first time, all over again.

_And_ , you _know_ : the sex. He can remember being 13 and running out of places to hide and masturbate (in this respect, living in motel rooms was really not conductive to the trials of adolescence) and not to be able to think of anything worse than being a virgin—for another year, for another month, for another _five seconds_. Now, unless he suffers from some embarrassing mid-coitus accident, he’s pretty sure he’s going to die a virgin, and he doesn’t mind at all.

Every time Cas sucks him off it’s his first-ever blowjob. He feels like he is going to die from being engulfed in such wet-hot heat, from Cas humming all around him, from the angel’s tongue licking him clean. Every time he fucks Cas, his dick is going someplace it’s never gone before: somewhere tight and amazing, somewhere that makes Cas moan beneath him, or throw his head back as he grinds on top of him; somewhere that makes Cas mutter some very unangelic-sounding things along with Dean’s name. And every time Castiel returns the favor, every time he sinks inside of Dean, opens him up again and pushes in for the first time, it’s a new wonder: being stretched like that, the way the pain flips around on itself to become pleasure, the way Castiel—an angel of the freakin’ lord—has to close his eyes and steel himself against losing control, stop himself from pounding into Dean’s tight virgin ass—well, if that isn’t worth living and fighting evil and hurling Lucifer back into Hell for, Dean doesn’t know what is.

“Do you know what you do to me?” Dean asks at one point, rhetorically; he’s just helped baptize both their bellies with sweat and semen, and been wiped clean.

Castiel looks at him—at both of them, sprawled together in a messy tangle of limbs, a knife under the pillow, salt by the door. Then he leans down and licks at Dean’s collarbone, nuzzles his neck. Dean shudders; he’s never felt anything like that before.

Eventually Castiel ceases his explorations, and lays his head down at Dean’s side, his hand over Dean’s heart.

He says, “I make you whole.”


End file.
